Date: Sat, 10 Apr 2004 13:26:29 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor
Subject: The Dahran Rebuttals - Chapter 4 - Gay - Authoritarian
This is the fourth chapter ex twenty two of a novel --The Dahran
Rebuttals - about present day slavery and gay sex.
The Dahran trilogies are composed to date of 6 novels:
Trilogy one:
The Changed Life
The Reluctant Retrainer
The Market Offer
Trilogy two:
The Special Memories
The Dahran Way
The Dahran Rebuttals (this novel)
Keywords:
authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, submission,
gay, sex
This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.
If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful
for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage
now.
Contact points:
e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
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Chapter 4--The assumption of adaptation
The assumption of adaptation would have us believe and accept two
contradicting notions. The first idea suggests that people, and therefore
slaves, can adapt to life and living conditions. The second notion is
that they can't. Neither assumption is absolute, but relative to the
players and to the circumstances.
My nephew, Jack Tuttle and his wife, Fiona, were living still at the
Aloe Palace when their first child was born. They had not yet got around
to cashing in my wedding voucher for a residence of their choice in
Dahra.
Jack was learning the art and science of banking working with me at
Deckams--the Bank where I work in Dahra and of which I am a Partner.
Fiona was keeping palace for the moment and heavily pregnant with their
first child. She had arrived in Dahra, a Scottish girl of some twenty
years, to a setting of both the modern world with its electronics and of
the darker middle ages with its slavery.
I had wrongly assumed, when Jack had first mentioned to me on a plane
that he wished to tell his future wife about life in Dahra, that Fiona
would not be able to handle it. But handled it she had and better than I
would have ever credited her.
All human beings adapt to their environment. The environment moulds us
more than we mould or move it. Dahra had shocked me when I had first been
given a slave. Maybe my shock was because I was older and wiser in the
ways of the world. Fiona Tuttle's shock was not as evident, but
obviously just as felt, when she had been told of slavery in Dahra. She
had adapted well and how she had adapted!
Quite apart from buying Scottish slaves for herself and using those
household and farm slaves of mine, who were in the Aloe Palace for their
normal work, Fiona had won the hearts of whomsoever she had come in
contact with which included two of Jack's slaves, Beno and Vedel
Vesh--two Romanian gypsies--in their mid-twenties.
She had even adapted to the extent of having the slaves dispense with
wearing of the boxer shorts which had been initially suggested as a
modesty factor by my Australian head of household at the Aloe Palace,
Pete Downings.
Fiona, pregnant since late January, and Jack were expecting in October.
From early on after her arrival at the Aloe Palace, Beno and Vedel had
taken over her boudoir as Jack so eloquently put it, looking after her
with such intensity of care that not just her wardrobe, but her daily
bath, was paramount to them.
Jack, whose slaves they rightly were, was attended to early morning and
late evening before and after his work at the Bank.
Jack, however, after his daily gym, invariably had one or other of the
two slaves in the sauna to exercise his droit de seigneur when he had not
picked out some other slave from the swimming pool. But he was strangely
delighted with the level of attention and care being given to Fiona by
both Beno and Vedel.
He said to me one evening, `It lets me feel very relaxed that they are
really lavishing all this attention on her.'
Fiona had let it be known that she wanted the baby at the Aloe Palace.
It was as if the old system had to adapt to the new arrival. Aziz
al-Aziz, my head of household at the Lime Palace, was delighted to hear
that. Apparently the last birth there had been the birth of Abdou
al-Akhri, the former owner, who had sold the palace to me.
`Not since the late Mistress had Master Abdou has a baby been born at
the Aloe Palace. It is a sign of new life in an old Palace, Jonathan, a
great sign!' were his comments.
`Dr. Fournier is only five minutes away by sand-buggy when he will be
needed,' was her comment when Jack tried to suggest the University
Hospital.
Beno and Vedel danced around her like workers and drones around the
queen-bee. Her morning bath had become all of an hour-long ritual as the
two Roma, according to Jack, repeating Fiona's comment--for he was not
allowed into his own bathroom suite when these ablutions were going
on--sponging her from head to toe and back again, perfuming the waters of
her bath, time and time again. They became experts on the times she had
to rest, the time for her to sleep and siesta, experts on how to give a
foot massage, experts on her diet `for two' as they constantly reminded
her.
Apart from a minor false alarm in mid-September, the baby, a healthy
boy was born on the last day of September, after a short labour, under
the medical care of Yves Fournier.
Fiona had insisted, apart from Jack, that Beno and Vedel be present for
the birth and they, in surgical greens and masks according to Jack, were
of more use to the Doctor than he as they stood there on the ready with
towels for any contingency and damp cloths to mop the perspiration on her
forehead.
Like many an event for which there is the most drastic and awesome of
planning, the moment itself of the birth of her child as Fiona said to me
afterwards was an intensity of emotion and fulfilment such as she had
never experienced before.
`I am glad labour did not go on for hours and hours,' she said,
`because I must have yelled the new paint off the walls. But when I
heard the first cry and through the haze and exertion knew that
everything had gone well, all I felt was a wave of unreserved joy.
When I asked the baby's proposed name, Jack and Fiona said in unison
Jason Jonathan Alexander Tuttle.
The child would be another generation of JT's in the Tuttle family and
I was pleased as punch, I really do not know why it made me so happy, why
a child which appeared to sleep all the time in a sea of white linen was
to bear my name as part of his. I made a mental note to have a word with
Josh Green in the Grand Cayman to do something for my great-nephew and my
sister Elizabeth's grandson.
Jack adapted to fatherhood. Fiona adapted to motherhood. Beno and Vedel
adapted to looking after three instead of two and were the ultimate
answer to babysitters.
While Fiona recovered from the birth, Jack exercised his droit de
seigneur nightly on a series of available slaves when Beno and Vedel were
not able to join him in the Palace's sauna.
Jack and Fiona's bedroom suite in the Aloe Palace has a servant's
room attached to it and Beno and Vedel were moved from the slave quarters
into it. Now they were not just assistant overseers, slave-godfathers to
the Mistress and Master's child, they were living in the Palace itself.
It was something to which they adapted with ease, I can tell you.
After the second night of the baby waking in the early hours of the
morning with wind, neither Fiona nor Jack had ever to get up again, as
one or other of the Roma slaves silently walked a white bundle up and
down the corridors of the Palace. Whenever the baby woke up hungry, the
slave in attendance would remain kneeling beside their bed while the
child was breast-fed by a drowsy mother.
The adapting of which people are capable was certainly seen also in
another instance. I had at the `for mercy' request of Jerzy Zarchewicz
taken the five former raiders, who were spending their lives on the
water-wheels of the Palace gardens off that punishment and assigned them
to him to do with them what he wished.
If his first act of generosity had been in forgiving their killing
Marek, his buddy and lover in their abortive raid on the Lime Palace, his
second act of generosity concerned to their learning how to swim.
Every slave at the Lime Palace puts in almost two hours of gym work per
day. I love to see my slaves in tip-top condition and all have to know
how to swim. Two of the former water-wheel slaves did not know how to
swim and over three months, Jerzy, under Roge Harte's instruction,
taught them how.
Any antagonism which might have been harboured by the general body of
the slaves against the former raider-attackers disappeared while Jerzy
walked and floated the non-swimmers up and down the shallow end of the
swimming pool until they had enough confidence to try a length.
One of the slaves assigned to my Polish assistant overseer had been the
leader of the gang of raiders. He had been assigned to offer his sexual
services to the four others every morning and evening.
`Does he not regret coming off the water-wheel, Jerzy?' I asked with
a smile when I heard.
`Since the loss of his right ball, Boss, he has become very docile.
Certainly he has no regrets about coming off the water-wheel, that I do
know, as I threatened him one day for being lazy and said I would have
him on a water-wheel for two days. He dropped to his knees and covered
his head in hands, as he begged and begged me not to.'
I must have appeared surprised, because Jerzy continued.
`When I said that the water-wheel would keep him busy in punishment
for his laziness, he said that it was not the punishment of the
water-wheel that frightened him but that no one would speak to him while
he was on it and that he would be chained to it like a dancing bear.'
That was not actually true. Ordinary slaves being punished on the
water-wheel duty are put on it for two days but not chained.
It was a forceful reminder to me that men, including slaves, are social
animals and need the company of others for their mental and psychological
health and that the loss of society is one of the greatest punishments of
all.
It was also proof to me that Jerzy Zarchewicz had adapted from being
just a slave, a companion, a buddy and a lover to being quite an
effective assistant overseer with his five Dahran Arab slaves.
The assumption of adaptation suggesting that men and by extension
slaves, can change only goes so far. I was very conscious of this as new
batches of prisoner-slaves came in to the Lemon Palace. There is no
substitute for experience in the training of slaves and no substitute for
the gut feeling which trainers have with a particular slave.
People, who have confidence in their own abilities and knowledge, have
no difficulty in not only seeking the advice of others, but in also
accepting that advice. It is a case of knowing that one's own experience
goes only so far and that another's experience may give an added
dimension, an added nuance, an added colour. Such was the case with the
Corsican.
Mirzan Babak, the overseer of the fifth compound was at Fernand
Salort's side looking decidedly uncomfortable.
The slave was standing insouciantly directly in front of me. It was as
if the slave did not care that he was there or not and more importantly,
it was as if he did not care whether I, the Master, was there or not.
On one of my weekly visits to the compounds, Mirzan had come to me with
his trainee slave and with his problem. He felt that the slave, who had
progressed through all the compounds and had even been sent back to
repeat the fourth and fifth compounds, was not trained.
`Master, I can't put my finger on it. Something is wrong here. He
does the exercises, but I am missing something and I do not know what. I
am sure that he is not trained, that he is not totally submissive, that
he is not a well-mannered slave inside. It is a gut feeling.'
I took one look at Fernand Salort and I knew, I just knew that Mirzan
was right. He was a hulking, sulky, sultry beauty. His face had a fine
Mediterranean bone structure, his eyes set wide apart, with fine eyebrows
and long lashes. His nostrils flared as he breathed through them and for
some reason there has a hint of colour in his upper cheeks. His full
lips, but not coarsely thick, were pink and moist where every so often he
would rub them off each other. There was not a single wrinkle or line on
his face.
His jet black hair was a trimmed close crew-cut. His upper body had
been naturally hairy but now was smooth as a forehead and his nipples had
proud central nubs which seemed larger that they were in fact.
The depilatory cream had worked its magic on Fernand's legs and the
smooth coffee coloured skin of his thighs was not broken by any tan line.
Here was a slave, who had sunbathed in the nude, was proud of his body,
clearly proud of a medium sized organ with a beautiful crowned glans
which had been circumcised some thirty days or so previously and whose
under-skin was still freshly pink and rough. But broken, he was not, or I
am not a Knight of St. Michael and St. George!
I had ordered Mirzan to bring a four-foot camel cane from the wall of
the compound and I had Raoul Sounard present as a French speaker.
`I am not happy with your training, because your trainer is not happy
with your training,' I said to the slave.
Raoul translated.
`Do twenty press-ups now.'
The slave dropped to the sand and counted off twenty sit-ups as he had
been trained to do. He hopped to his feet. The sit-ups had been good. The
counting had been clear.
`Do you think I have all the time in the day to look at you doing slow
press-ups?'
Fernand Salort looked a little uncertain for the first time.
`No, Master.'
`Mirzan, four of your best across his backside.'
Raoul was translating as we went along.
Mirzan put two fingers on the slave's shoulders and the slave, as he
had been trained, bent down and grasped the back of his knees.
The camel-cane flashed four times and after each cutting slice through
the air, the slave counted off the strokes.
`Now, twenty sit-ups quickly.'
Although the slave's backside would have been tenderised by the
camel-cane's first strokes, he sat on the sand and he went through the
twenty sit-ups as ordered and counted them off.
`When I order sit-ups I mean proper sit-ups. Mirzan four strokes.'
Again, Mirzan had the slave bend over and a further four strokes landed
firmly further down the backside of the slave heading towards the upper
thighs. The slave jerked as the last three strokes landed and he counted
them off.
Three further procedures of on-the-spot exercises, shuttle runs and
squat thrusts resulted in the same number of punishment strokes being
administered, now to the upper and lower thighs. After the last set of
four strokes, Fernand Salort had been barely able to count them off.
Then he was ordered to do twenty left- and right-sit-ups. The slave
lowered himself to the sand and very slowly started to do the overlapping
sit-ups. There was silence all round as the defiance of the exercises was
noted.
`Is that how you were taught to do the left and right sit-ups?'
Mirzan finally demanded.
The slave was just finishing them which he did.
`You will punish me whether I do them fast or slow. I choose to do
them slow,' he said and then bent forward and caught himself around the
knees waiting to be punished. His brazenness was now evident. He had not
even deferred to me as Master in his reply.
The action proved what both Mirzan and I had suspected. The slave was
not thinking like a slave and certainly was not a broken-in one.
`Get me some Aloe milk-sap,' I said.
Ben Trant, who was nearest the central table in the compound went over
and brought me back a jar of it.
I went over to the bent-over slave and poured the entire jar over his
upturned buttocks and thighs and proceeded to smooth it over the weals on
the skin. The slave hissed a couple of times when my finger touched a
more than sensitive spot.
When finally finished, I said `now, at display.'
Fernand Salort stood up straight and put his hands behind his neck. His
chest was not very far pushed out, nor his belly pulled it, as a really
trying slave would have them.
`You have no idea what my praise or my punishment is or can be at any
time. You are a slave, here to obey my orders. Just as I could put Aloe
milk-sap on your skin to relieve the pain, so too could I have ordered
another four strokes or have had you flogged to an inch of your life for
that insolence.'
I let Raoul catch up on the translation.
`Now you can choose your final punishment for that insolence. One, you
can start your training all over again in the very first compound. Two,
you can accept one hundred strokes of a camel-cane here and now, or
three, you can give up your remaining ball. You choose.'
Raoul translated.
The slave was trembling when Raoul stopped speaking.
`You choose now, or I choose for you with a few tosses of a coin.'
`You will never break me. I will never be your slave. Never!' he
hissed.
We were finally getting places.
`You are my slave. You just don't get it yet. Complying with my
orders fast or slow, you are my slave. Wearing my SIN number, you are my
slave. Without your clothes, you are my slave.'
I ordered the slave to stand at `rest'--his hands clasped in the
small of his back.
I then told Vaz to get a waistband which is used when slaves are
delivered to us--a leather belt with a cuff on either side of it. Vaz put
it on Fernand Salort's waist and fastened his wrists to each side of it.
From my pocket, I took four small alligator clips--the real metal ones
with the teeth, not the alternative ones with simple bars and placed them
on the table beside me. The slave's eyes never left them for a second,
nor did anyone else's for that matter.
`I am still waiting for your choice of punishment.'
The slave did not reply.
Taking one of the alligator clips in one hand, I took the slave's cut
penis in my right hand. He attempted to move back. Well-trained slaves do
not move when being punished--another sign of his lack of acceptance of
his training. Mirzan and Vaz held him firm and I opened the alligator
clip and fastened it to the tip of his penis. The slave screamed as the
teeth bit into the tender flesh and he bent forward so hard in a
convulsion that he almost pulled his two trainers with him.
`Stand up straight and then kneel twenty times,' I ordered,
indicating to his two trainers to let him go. The slave's eyes were wide
with pain and so bloodshot so that I could see the individual veins in
the eyeballs.
`Now,' I commanded.
The slave struggled to comply and just over halfway through he began to
cry quietly to himself. He finished the twenty simple exercises of
kneeling down and standing up with the agony of the alligator clip biting
into his cockhead.
`Have you chosen your punishment?'
Fernand Salort was gasping for air. He shook his head as he could not
even verbalise a negative answer, such was the pain of that single point
on his body.
`Let me help you think more clearly,' I said to him very quietly and
to Mirzan, I said, `Bend him over the table.'
The slave's torso was quickly pushed down over the table. I kicked his
legs wide apart to see the condition of his butt-hole which to my finger
felt soft and tender after its exercising with butt-plugs over the days
of the previous month's training.
Taking up a second alligator clip, I pressed its open teeth against the
lips of one side of the butt-hole and released the clip. This time the
slave screamed and convulsed as pain shot up the long sphincter muscle
through his body and down his legs.
`Stand him up.'
The slave was gasping for air between waves of pain. When the trainers
released their grip on him, Fernand Salort half sank forward, trying to
widen the space between his knees and so ease the shooting pains which
the alligator clip on his butt-hole lips must have been causing him.
`Have you chosen your punishment?'
The slave opened his mouth to say something, but all he managed was a
strangled half-cry and he started sinking to his knees.
The cry vocalised into a single word, `Master,' which he started to
repeat over and over. His stance and hold on defiance, resistance,
challenge and insolence bled invisibly into the sands of Dahra.
I raised the slave's chin which was almost on the ground.
`Have you chosen your punishment?'
`Master, you choose my punishment' and those words exhausted any
challenge of his to my authority as tears of humiliation and pain
streaked his face. His body sank to the sand and even seemed to get
smaller.
`Stand him up,' I said to Mirzan and he and Vaz stood the slave up
again.
`Bend him over.'
I took off the butt-hole alligator clip. The teeth had not pierced the
anal lips, but had left clear deep indents. The slave shouted hoarsely as
the clip was taken off his flesh.
Having been stood up straight and turned around towards me, I took off
the clip on his penis tip. Again, the slave shouted hoarsely and again I
noted that the alligator clip teeth had not broken the flesh of the
cock-head, but had left it severely bruised, after what was not more than
ten minutes in place.
`You now want me to choose your punishment--to have you repeat the
compounds, to be flogged or to lose your left ball. Is that what you want
me to choose?'
`Yes, Master.'
`Fine, I choose your punishment as gelding your other ball. That will
make you a very docile slave in my fields. Do you accept that
punishment?'
Fernand Salort's face had gone white and tears were starting to
dribble down the sides of his nose.
`Yes, Master. I accept your punishment.'
There was something there in the voice which was not there previously
and I took it to be the acceptance of a fate which he could not avoid or
change.
`So be it. You will be gelded when Mirzan and Vaz say so. Your
remaining ball is now in their hands.'
Mirzan and Vaz were looking at me and Mirzan asked in Arabic, `How do
you want us to decide, Master?'
`The first day you see defiance in the slave's eyes, Mirzan.'
Mirzan went over to the slave and looked into his eyes. Fernand Salort
avoided the look and Mirzan moved the slave's face, until there was no
way to avoid Mirzan's look.
`Master, I see shame at not being strong enough to resist. I see a
form of acceptance of his new condition of slavedom. I cannot see the
defiance or whatever I saw there before.'
The extreme breaking of Fernand Salort was repeated on other incoming
slaves by Mirzan and Vaz on various other occasions and according to
Mirzan, it was done in the presence of all those slaves, who might be in
the compound for training at the time.
Fear is a poor and blunt training tool when compared to others
available to the trainer of slaves. But when other training tools fail,
it can be useful and used.
In the case of difficult slaves like Fernand Salort, the assumption of
adaptation from an environment of either total freedom, or one of prison
life can never be determined by their mere living a life of slavedom in
following instructions and commands from overseers and a general
avoidance of trouble at my Palaces.
In the cases where extreme training like that of Fernand Salort takes
place, adaptation to our way of life at the Palaces does follow in time.
As the fear of losing the remaining ball recedes, the slave offers
something of himself, a little something extra for starters to the
overseers. The overseers on their part are instructed to be extra
vigilant for the very first sign of adaptation and to nurse it
accordingly. It may be as simple as the slave volunteering for some extra
work or duty. In one case, it was a slave stopping an argument between
two others which could have turned ugly.
The only common factor in all such cases, is that not a single one of
such slaves has yet been promoted to assistant overseer which either
requires my own single choice in the matter as Master, or the agreed
choice of all the overseers in the particular Palace, subject to my
approval. It is not that something is being held against the slave, but
rather that such a slave has yet to prove himself consistently as being
worthy of the promotion.
End of Chapter 4
To be continued . . .